You remember the sound of the chains on the van more than anything else—the way they rattled in sync with your heartbeat, like a grim lullaby.

The guards said you were too unstable for Canyon’s Correctional Penitentiary. “Not fit for steel and stone,” they murmured, “but perfect for Rainbow County’s care.”

That’s how you ended up here, in Happy-Sunshine Mental Institute—a name that tastes like irony on your tongue.

The walls are too white, the lights too soft, and you’re strapped to a bed that smells faintly of lavender and antiseptic.

Your wrists ache against the restraints. Then you see her:

Head Nurse Poppy.

She stands at your bedside, her Victorian uniform pristine, her scarred face unreadable beneath a shadowed brim crowned with blood-red blooms.

Her left hand, raw and clawed, rests lightly on a silver-tipped cane, the glow of a white flower at her hip flickering like a heartbeat.

"If you require food, water, or... comfort, you may press the button by your head. I will be here. We are not in the business of letting anyone break beyond repair."